


Past Our Satellites

by sailaway



Series: Sounds Like a You Problem [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Military, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux feels he might as well be opening his chest cavity, cracking the ribs one at a time, exposing his raw insides. “When I see you it's like ten years haven't passed at all.” </p><p>For once in his life, smart mouthed Kylo has nothing to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Our Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Sounds Like a You Problem.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940640)
> 
> Massive artistic license was taken with this. A thousand thanks to [kyluxtrashcompactor](http://kyluxtrashcompactor.tumblr.com) for the invaluable discussions! My tumblr is [here.](http://apprentixe.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

 

“Love is a kind of warfare.” – Ovid 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Colonel Brendol Hux drops his smoking habit within a week of taking command of Camp Mideyo. The temperature simply won't allow for it. It's struggle enough to breathe the thick, hot African air as it is; if he tried adding smoke he might spontaneously combust like a man-shaped pile of tinder.

Even the quarter mile walk from his living unit to his office is enough to blot his clothes with sweat. This slovenliness is repellent but unavoidable. Also inescapable is the sand. Dust settles over everything – his keyboard, his hair, gritty in his socks no matter how tightly his boots are laced. 

Speaking of boots, he found a camel spider in his right one on his second day.

Most mornings Hux takes to the jogging path, before the rise of the blistering sun. Running settles the mind, and he can hear himself think out here. From the eastern perimeter he can see the Gulf of Aden, the sea slate blue and as flat and featureless as the terrain. He appreciates overlooking his base this way – it's the government's installation, of course, but it's his responsibility for the next two years.

And it feels right, that he's been entrusted with this swatch of land to look after. He slips into the role with relative ease, thanks in large part to his very efficient predecessor, but the frequent dawn-to-dusk work days almost drive him into the ground until he hits his stride. Desolate as the landscape may be – the only green is the sign on the knockoff Starbucks – the base never rests, supporting detachments from all branches of the armed services and hosting frequent exercises with the local military. The landing strip hums with aircraft around the clock, from the rumble of C-130s to the drone of private planes bearing delegates and dignitaries. People stream through his office, the stack of paperwork never diminishes, and his schedule is crammed with briefings and logistics sessions. 

He's hardly breezing through, the job keeps him permanently on his toes, but he thinks he's going to be good at this. He knows it. 

 

* * *

 

A report comes across his desk about airmen hassling local women. He has no patience for this kind of thing; not only is it distasteful conduct for service members, it weakens their relationship with the people in the region. Now he has to spend precious time meeting with the mayor to apologize on behalf of his troops and assure him steps would be taken to prevent further such behavior. 

The route into town is wide and unpaved and the Humvee bounces and jolts over the hard-packed dirt. The desert stretches scrubby and beige on all sides, punctuated by the occasional stunted acacia tree, traditional thatched hut, or camel herd attended by boys in colorful robes. 

Hux's aide is making small talk about his home state of Utah (“the south looks a little like this”) when out of the corner of his eye Hux notices something out of place through the windshield. Before he can fully turn to look the vehicle explodes upward with a deafening blast. RPG, Hux recognizes in horror, neck snapping sideways as they smash back down. His ears are ringing and as takes stock of his limbs (all present) and the driver and aide (alive and stirring) he initiates immediate calculations about who'd be launching a rocket-propelled grenade on this nothing stretch of road in a non-combat zone. 

Beyond the shattered windshield is billowing black smoke and the crumpled hood, flames blossoming orange into the air. He wipes sand from his face with his sleeve and draws his Beretta M9, right on the tail of his aide as they duck out of the now-volatile vehicle. 

There are gunshots, the pop of bullets spraying the metal door and Hux realizes it's an ambush. He drops down on his belly next to the shredded tire, taking aim at the shapes materializing through the smoke – his pistol's jammed with the damn dust – 

Suddenly there's a bag over his head, thick rough fabric choking him, accompanied by a rifle butt to the skull and it's lights out.

 

* * *

 

The concrete room he's shoved into is closet-sized, maybe 7 by 5 feet and windowless except for a palm-sized crack, too high to see out of, where wall meets roof. A thin ribbon of watery light under the door flickers as people move in front of it. Hux sits cross-legged on the tattered foam mat and stares at the passing shadows, dazed, listening passively to muffled voices. He can't tell through the walls if it's Arabic or Somali, but from the cadence he suspects the latter. 

On the third night he's dragged out into a sparsely furnished living room and interrogated by two men; youthful, twitchy, and aggressive. They tie Hux to a chair with a bungee cord, which tells him they're inexperienced, as it's hardly necessary with the AK-47 brandished in his direction. Nothing about this is pleasant but the physical restraint, the forced helplessness, fuels the fear. 

They know Hux's name and rank and the questions are brief and basic – about Camp Mideyo, American support and training of Somali troops, the aircraft carrier off the coast. Hux isn't sure if the questions are so limited due to their poor English, or because he's been taken not for intel but for ransom or prisoner exchange. (How many Guantanamo detainees is an American officer worth these days?) They're more than happy to beat him for his lack of response. He doesn't black out but he wishes he had. 

He gets meals twice a day, if they could be called such. The meager portions – a dollop of stew or rice, a granola bar, a can of tuna – do little to assuage the gnawing hunger, and he's lucky if the beat up canteen is filled more than halfway. His head pounds with dehydration. 

Strange memories come to him, uninvited. Images long forgotten, dreams of things he wouldn't have considered meaningful. The cream puffs his mother made for dinner parties, perfectly crafted and only available to Hux if any were leftover. The jogging trail he used while stationed in Germany, winding through peaceful woods. A melody on guitar, fuzzy now, played by an old neighbor. 

Hux attempts to keep track of the days but they took his watch and his sleep cycles are off. Not long after he loses count he gets a new visitor. He's bearded and sharp-eyed, older than the captors Hux has dealt with up to this point, carrying himself with authority instead of their fidgety bravado. He says little and takes a photo of Hux holding that day's paper. It may be a ridiculous vanity but Hux cringes to think of this image of himself – unshaven, hair a mess, cheeks hollow – plastered on the news. 

After the man leaves the others beat him for no discernible reason. His lips splits in two places. From the date on the newspaper, assuming it was indeed today's, it's been a month.

 

* * *

 

Hux believes in the value of keeping a firm handle on his emotions, and now is no exception. Wallowing in fear and self-pity and reminiscing will just be a different form of torture, a slow descent into hysteria. But he's losing the reins on his thought patterns, his mind wandering unchecked – away from safer tracks towards the past, memories blooming to the forefront of his mind like spring crocuses.

His first promotion ceremony. Tipsy on excellent wine in Paris. A mess of black hair, whipping like a cyclone in the ocean wind, over a sea-salt grin. The cat he'd watched for a friend who'd deployed; a smug orange thing he'd disliked on sight but had grown secretly fond of. A tiny apartment in New York, awful in every conceivable way except for its resident. Him with the dark eyes, liquid and sweet as chocolate liqueur. 

The bad ones creep in, too, seeking their share of attention. The hot shame and bruised pride after the first real dressing down he'd received from a superior. A fight on the sidewalk, the “shut ups” from people leaning out windows. A mountain road in Afghanistan, peppered with IEDs that nearly took out his entire convoy. He shouldn't have survived that. He doesn't believe in fate; it just shook out that way.

He's considered this current predicament from every angle, and eventually has to stop analyzing how this shake out. 

 

* * *

 

Hux has always been a light sleeper. He'd assumed he would eventually adjust to a lifestyle that often involves having to catch a few Z's whenever you can but no, he still wakes at a pin drop, and the noise emanating from outside his cell is far louder than that. The crack of assault weapons, the slap of bare feet running by. Frantic shouting in the hallway. Hux's Somali is minimal but he knows enough to parse a few very relevant words like “kill” and “hostage.” 

He stumbles behind the door just as it opens, and when a pistol comes into view Hux seizes the attached wrist, jerking it downward and trapping the man's arm under his. But although his captor is shorter and caught off guard he's better nourished. He yells something indignant in his own language and as they grapple for the weapon Hux is acutely aware of how much muscle tone his captivity has cost him. 

A knee is brought swiftly up into Hux's gut and as he doubles over he's tackled to the ground. The barrel of the gun veers dangerously close to Hux's head and as it starts to slip out of Hux's hand, sweaty from their combined grasp, the man bares his teeth and squeezes off a shot. A white-hot streak rakes the side of Hux's skull and for a brief frozen moment, deafened by the report and seeing stars, he prepares to die but the very sharp, very real pain tells him not yet. Not yet.

Hux draws on his last reserves of strength to chop at his opponent's forearm and the pistol goes skittering to the opposite wall. The man lunges for it but Hux catches his sleeve, hauls him back and elbows him awkwardly in the nose. His features contort in rage and he grabs Hux's head and slams it into the concrete once, twice, three times, yanking his head to the side to smash it into the floor directly on the bullet wound. It's this blow that leaves Hux wrecked and limp – but now there's another set of arms and his would-be executor's neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes dimming, crumpling as he's tossed aside like a puppet. 

Standing over Hux is a silhouette bristling with assorted firepower and combat gear – he can't quite tell if another is coming in behind to secure the cell, or if that's just his vision doubling. Both? His brain and body don't seem fully connected anymore. The figure kneels, broad in the armored vest; out of habit Hux searches for rank or insignia but the lack of it is an identifier in itself, revealing him as special ops. The protruding night vision goggles make him look alien but there's a dark, glistening, all-too-human stain spreading on his thigh. 

He's saying something... Hux's name? It elicits a sort of warm déjà vu – an odd sentiment at such a time – perhaps it's just relief at an American accent. For a moment he almost thought... but no, the face behind the goggles is leaner, the woven scarf swathed over his mouth highlighting cheekbones sharper than the ones Hux remembers. And that would be ludicrous. So ludicrous. What's he saying now? The sounds around Hux are strangely distorted, the voices garbled and unintelligible to his ears. 

Hux can't remember leaving the squat building but they must have since they're outside. Even the disgustingly hot breeze feels like salvation. Apparently he'd gotten here under his own power but now his limbs give out like wet paper, vision fuzzing at the edges. It's the neck-breaking operator bolstering him up on his right but the man's own breathing is labored, and as Hux's knees hit the dirt they both go down. As Hux's head bows he notices with some detachment that there's blood, black in the faint moonlight, trickling steadily from somewhere. It takes a few heartbeats to realize it's his, dripping hot and itchy from his brow and jaw.

As the extraction team swarms around them the fallen operator rolls on his side, raising his goggles, and Hux vaguely registers familiar eyes narrowed in pain but focused on him. The whup-whup-whup of rotor blades and the stinging grains of sand kicked up by the descending helicopter are the last input he receives before it dissolves into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Hux wakes to the quiet hum of air conditioning and the smell of disinfectant. Disoriented, he jerks upright, and the too-quick movement sends fresh shards of agony through his body. A young blonde in scrubs rushes over from the nurse's station.

“Where...” he manages, unable to complete the sentence, more a rasp than a question. His brain is flooded by sensory information; the lights are too bright, the walls too white. Slivers of sun peek through the blinds. His head is being split in two by a rail spike. 

“Sir, you're in the hospital at Camp Mideyo. You'll want to lie down – ”

What Hux wants is to be debriefed right away but sitting up so rapidly made the room spin, nausea swelling in his gut, so he sinks back slowly onto the flat little pillow. He turns to avoid pressure on the base of his skull but there's pain on that side too, so he tries the other way, gingerly touching the wide bandage that circles his head. The IV pinches in the back of his hand. His whole body feels battered and weak. Everything from the neck up could use a replacement.

“Water. Please.” His mouth is like sandpaper. The nurse obliges with a plastic cup of perfect, cool, crystal clear water. Hux drinks greedily, spilled drops dotting the the hospital gown. He takes in the high, thin windows, the powder blue curtains between beds, the vents running along the low ceiling. He's been here once before, it's coming back now.

He must look discombobulated because the nurse expounds, “You've had a severe concussion and that bullet came mighty close to piercing bone.” She checks his pupils with a penlight and makes a few notes in his chart. “You and that Delta operator were lucky to make it out.”

There's something important, niggling at the back of his mind, eluding his reach the more he struggles to recall it. He ponders as the nurse refills his cup then disappears to the other side of the privacy curtain. The extraction is mostly a blur, fragmented and dream-like, but that operator feels significant somehow. Gratitude, perhaps, to a rescuer.

Behind the curtain to his left the nurse is speaking with another patient, her voice low and solicitous. The surly growl she gets in response sends a flare of shock lancing up into Hux's throat. 

The curtain flutters as the nurse huffs away. The patient grumbles something inaudible but sullen, sheets rustling. Hux lies immobile, unaware he's holding his breath until his lungs protest. Disbelief paralyzes him into something that feels rather like a cardiac arrest.

Space is limited in the small ward, and Hux doesn't even have to extend his arm fully to grab the curtain. 

As he tugs it back he's met with a scowl he knows and a pair of hooded amber eyes.

Nothing is said. It's rare that Hux finds himself at a loss for words. And the man in the bed next to him had always had such a smart mouth. Into this narrow gulf between them comes a thousand recollections, the past ten years condensing into nothing like a star collapsing in on itself. Hux realizes he's gaping and shuts his mouth with a snap. 

“Hello, neighbor,” Kylo says at last, utterly unruffled. 

Hux is not entirely sure what he's seeing isn't merely the hallucination of an injured and malnourished man with too many drugs in his IV. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms to shake off the stupor. For a few sickening seconds he's convinced he's still in that cell, lost in a fever dream, his mistreated body giving out at last. 

“What...?” is all he can sputter. He stares until his eyes start to dry. Kylo's gaze is steady and indifferent. Damn near serene. 

“What are you doing here?” It's all Hux can come up with.

Kylo's lip curls, as if it's a stupid question. By way of reply he lifts his arm, a thin tube feeding from the bend of his elbow up to a blood bag hooked to a stand.

“What are you doing _here,_ ” Hux emphasizes, flustered. His shock is manifesting itself as outrage, which deep down he recognizes as a nonsensical reaction. “Do you have any explanation for yourself?”

Kylo just cocks his head, the lift of his brow cool. 

“You know what I'm asking,” Hux rephrases. Perhaps his wording had been... abrasive.

“I enlisted.” His tone is aloof. “Turns out I was good at it.” Curt, tidily explanatory, yet so aggravatingly vague. Hux had idly speculated over the years, when something reminded him, what had become of Kylo, but this path never occurred to him. He and the army seem like oil and water. The military represents order, structure, discipline. Kylo – the Kylo he'd known, at least – was chaos incarnate. In a moment of alcohol-induced weakness he once confessed he'd always wanted to follow in his grandfather's footsteps but was afraid he couldn't hack it. 

Apparently he could. 

Hux lets his head fall back, fixing his attention on the ceiling tiles. The heart monitoring machine blocks Kylo's face; a mercy, as Hux is having a difficult time controlling his. 

The minutes tick by. Hux can formulate nothing else to say. It all feels suspiciously like some outlandish prank, and he's never cared for those. Certainly not ones on this scale.

He sifts through his memories like a stack of photographs, back to the last time he saw Kylo. The last time they spoke came later, and is a far more unpleasant recollection that Hux long ago stopped revisiting. But that final morning they'd been truly together. Whatever they'd spoken of has been lost now but not the noise of New York rush hour, the tickle of dark hair, shared body heat cocooned under the comforter. He can recall the coffee, but not Kylo's expression. It's only in hindsight that one realizes the significance of these moments.

Hux props himself up on his forearm, cautiously peering over the top of the heart monitor. Kylo in the present has drifted off to sleep. 

_Kylo's place isn't too bad, Hux thinks as he pokes around. The above-garage apartment isn't spacious, but feels more cramped than it is due to the various boxes Kylo hasn't yet unpacked. It's further from the academy so it's quiet, although that could just be because its occupant is currently absent. He still has that papasan chair Hux remembers from the duplex. He can detect a Kylo shaped impression in it, and visualizes him there during their late night texting. The whole space bears Kylo's stamp; an empty packet of guitar strings on the little folding table, that scarf he likes hanging from a hook on the back of the door, two guitars in stands on either side of the bed._

_Hux turns at the familiar tread on the weather-beaten stairs and suddenly Kylo's there, too large for the door frame, a sheen of perspiration on his arms and his hair damp and untamed. He drops his gym bag, staring at Hux like it's been an eternity instead of six weeks. Like he wasn't sure he was going to see him again at all._

_“You're two days early,” Kylo stammers._

_Hux raises a brow. “I can leave and come back, if you want.”_

_Kylo startles out of his reverie. “No-no-no. I'm just, uh – ” He tries to shut the door with his heel but the bag gets caught underneath. He kicks at it a few times but it doesn't budge, only wedging itself further. “Fuckin', god damn – ” He breaks eye contact to fumble with it, yanking the bag free and slamming the door shut._

_“I just left the gym.” Kylo gestures to himself apologetically. “I can shower.”_

_“You look like you've just had sex.”_

_Kylo's eyes widen in confusion before narrowing again when he realizes Hux is giving him a hard time. He crosses his arms. “You look like a trust fund kid. White pants? You come here on a yacht?”_

_Hux frowns. “How classist.”_

_Kylo takes a hesitant step forward. Hux smirks. “Come and take them off me, then.”_

___

_The sheets are a tangle around them, Kylo sprawled horizontally on his back with his head on Hux's stomach. He's playing with Hux's hand – “now we've both got callouses” – as Hux tells him in more detail about the officer's course, his classmates, the battle drills, the physical training requirements._

_Suddenly Kylo turns his head, intently watching Hux's mouth. “You've got an accent,” he says in fascination._

_Hux bristles. “I absolutely do not.”_

_“You do!” His tone is gleefully teasing. “It's subtle, I didn't pick up on it over the phone. Six weeks past the Mason-Dixon line and you've got a drawl. I thought you didn't even live in North Carolina long?”_

_“I didn't,” Hux sighs, making an effort to neutralize his speech. “But most of my family's from the south. Georgia and the Carolinas, mainly, a few in Louisiana. It slips out when I've been there awhile.”_

_“I like it.” Hux blushes as Kylo rolls over and rubs his cheek, catlike, on his chest. “It sounds like peaches.”_

 

* * *

 

“Temporarily relieved of duty?!” Hux can't restrain his voice from jumping up a notch. 

Lieutenant Colonel Phann's expression is one of quite condolence. Hux knew his executive officer had taken over in his absence, but now she'd come deliver the news that she'll be continuing in the role for the foreseeable future. She's an effective replacement, intelligent and capable, but it's Hux's command, not hers. He's well aware it's standard protocol, yet it still rankles that he's being kept from his post. Throughout his captivity he'd had some vision of a triumphant return. This kind of disappointment is exactly what comes of entertaining fanciful notions. 

It's not an official debriefing but he learns from Phann he'd been held seven weeks. The majority of that time was spent tracking down his location. It's virtually nothing, compared to the months – years – some hostages have endured, and Hux knows he has his rank and position to thank for his speedy retrieval. He's sure his surname didn't hurt, either. No doubt his father pulled strings. Retired or not, stars on your shoulder and connections in D.C. do have their perks.

There's more. The complaints about harassment in town had been nothing but a pretense originating from a pair of enterprising women unfriendly to the American military, a ruse to get him on the road. Clever set up. As he'd suspected, his aide and driver had been killed outright and although he'd long since accepted it as the probable outcome, he feels a hollow sting for the waste of life. 

There's no set date for the psychological evaluation but with it comes the looming – and likely, if Hux is being honest with himself – possibility of being permanently relieved and shipped back to the states. This is unacceptable. He hasn't worked so hard to let this incident disrupt and permanently alter his career. But the unsteadiness in his limbs and near-constant headaches are a tangible reminder of the damage his body has undergone. Still, he's here to lead, not to lounge in bed. 

He's not alone in his feelings, he learns when Kylo gets a visitor. It's Major Jackson, he runs the spec ops detachment – to think, the man Hux spoke to over lunch about requisitions for helicopters had Kylo under his command this entire time. Hux can't know the names of all the nearly five thousand people here, but it's still unnerving. He cannot wrap his head around it. Kylo of the short fuse and weird music, the passion and the rage, the squashy fervent heart under the thorny veneer. That Kylo.

Jackson exchanges a few pleasantries and sympathetic words with Hux – “Good to have you back, sir” – before he passes behind the curtain to Kylo's side. Hux tries not to eavesdrop (that's a lie, he stops reading specifically to eavesdrop) and since Kylo doesn't bother keeping it down, it becomes clear that he too is essentially dry-docked. 

There's a minute or two of silence after the major leaves. Hux debates offering a comment in commiseration. Then there's a bellow and the crash of a tray table being upended. Unreal, Hux seethes as a cellphone goes skidding across the linoleum, followed by a magazine sailing through the air, pages ruffling as it plops to the floor. 

Hux rips back the curtain, one of the hooks popping off the track. Kylo's upright in bed and he startles, head whipping around.

“I have gone ten years without this nonsense,” Hux clips out, over-enunciating with the effort of keeping his voice level. “And I'm not going to be subjected to it again. This kind of conduct is unprofessional and unbecoming – ”

“Shut up.” Kylo is deadly calm. 

Hux's proverbial hackles rise. “You can't speak to me that way.” 

“You're not my commanding officer.” Kylo's face is ashen from blood loss but his eyes burn bright enough to make up for the pallor. He's technically correct, special ops are in another chain of command entirely, but Hux vastly outranks him and until further notice is still the commander of this base, even if not currently acting. 

He frowns in warning. “Careful. Your attitude wasn't cute a decade ago and it isn't appropriate now.”

He fully expects a retort despite the reprimand, but with a mere blink Kylo wipes his face of emotion and without making further eye contact pulls the curtain back into position. 

 

* * *

 

Hux's father has never been the warmest man, but the relief and concern in the retired general's voice is palpable even over the phone. Hux can hear his mother's tears, even as she tries to quell them. He has to dissuade them from flying out as he'll likely be sent stateside soon anyway. He's come to accept that now, even if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Kylo calls home, too. The conversation is hushed and brief – due to the nature of his job, there's little he can share – but Hux can tell he's talking to his mother. 

_The Craftsman style home is flanked by mature pines, their deep color pleasing against the house's sage green paint. The path up to the door is lined with fragrant flowering bushes, white gravel crunching underfoot. The property is far nicer than Hux had expected._

_“I still can't believe I've been stationed here for five months and you only just now tell me your parents live an hour away,” he chides._

_“An hour and a half, with the ferry,” Kylo corrects, just to be contrary. He's fidgeting, hands stuffed in his pockets, as if regressing to teenage status with every step._

_In short and sheepish terms, and after much coaxing, Kylo admitted he'd met that manager Snoke online in high school and, despite his parents' vocal reservations, immediately upon graduating took off for the east coast to start his band. Hux could sense his embarrassment and decided not to pry further._

_Before Kylo can ring the bell the door is opened by a woman with warm eyes and a long braid, threaded with gray. Hux starts; he recognizes her face. He's seen it on the news, heard his father rail against her once before. She doesn't notice his unmannerly staring, face aglow as she focuses on Kylo._

_There's over a foot of height difference between mother and son but Kylo looks smaller, head bowed to meet her keen gaze. She clearly wants to embrace him but restrains herself, instead taking Kylo's large hand between her smaller ones. She says nothing, but smiles._

_As they unpack in the guest room Hux stares daggers at Kylo, who studiously dodges eye contact. “I cannot believe you, Kylo. Your mother is Leia Organa.”_

_Kylo shrugs like it's irrelevant._

_“Only one of the most recognizable pacifist and humanitarian activists in the country,” Hux continues. “You spent all that time painting a picture of a broken home – ”_

_“I never said that. You drew your own conclusions.”_

_“You certainly let me believe it.” Hux winds up a t-shirt and snaps Kylo's ass with it._

Hux only met her that once. She'd been courteous but visibly leery when she'd learned his surname. Politics aren't a polite subject over dinner anyway (at least outside of the Hux household) but they'd sidestepped the topic with extra care during that brief weekend visit. Han Solo had been out of town; Hux had gotten the distinct impression this was par for the course. He wonders what they think of their only son's chosen career path.

 

* * *

 

Hux winces at his sorry reflection in the hospital bathroom's mirror. His head is mottled with bruises, the purple smudge under one eye bringing out the green. A fat maroon stripe curves along his scalp, looking very Frankenstein's monster with the row of small metal staples. A few more are scattered in back. His body had diminished from lithe to downright skinny, ribs in stark relief, and he makes a mental note to up his protein intake. 

Bodily harm aside, it occurs now that he's never seen himself with a beard before. He doesn't care for the effect, regardless of military grooming standards, and it takes a pair of scissors and two razors to conquer the auburn mass. Being on his feet for so long makes him dizzy and he clamps down on the lip of the sink, breathing deeply and pointedly ignoring the nurse call button, until it passes. 

After he rinses and wipes stray hairs from the counter he inspects his handiwork in the mirror. He's nicked his chin. He hasn't cut himself shaving since high school. 

Other than the obvious, he's curious how he appears to Kylo. The bones in his face have become slightly more pronounced with age, more so now from the weight loss, and although the stress of the job makes some go prematurely gray he's been spared so far. Speaking of hair, it needs drastic trimming. But if he combs it just so, it almost conceals the bristly patches where they'd had to shave it.

It's early afternoon but Kylo's asleep. He's over-sized on the narrow bed, prone and arms akimbo, hair tied loosely back. His skin is still pale, his profiled face – so long impressed on Hux's mind like pen marks under the top sheet of a notepad – is serious in slumber. There's something profoundly surreal about being laid up in the hospital next to an ex who'd rescued him from terrorists. If it was a primetime TV drama, Hux would've changed the channel.

He takes the opportunity to discreetly examine the chart at the foot of Kylo's bed. _Benjamin Organa Solo._ That name may have been on Kylo's driver's license (that Hux had forced him to get) and on his lease (“you're paying _how_ much for this dump!?”) but Hux had never adapted to it. He was always just... Kylo. Like Cher. Or Prince. Nowhere near as spangly but just as diva-like sometimes. Or at least he used to be. Time changes a person; otherwise it's beyond Hux how the most reactive, headstrong individual he'd ever known qualified for an elite unit that requires total composure under pressure. 

_Sergeant. 6'3”. 220lbs._ Despite the medical terminology and abbreviations he deduces Kylo had been shot in the thigh. Hux remembers the blood. It was fairly clean wound, in and out; but Delta Force operators essentially train, eat, sleep, repeat, keeping themselves honed to a knife's edge, and being physically restricted must have been a blow.

Hux is fully aware that Kylo's chosen this job, and merely carried out the mission and been injured in the line of duty. But former Hux – that younger, earlier edition of himself that still exists somewhere like a backup file – would be ill over Kylo putting himself in danger for him. Current Hux: he'd probably had no say in the assignment. Former Hux: he could have died saving me.

Another wave of wooziness rocks him and he braces on the bed frame, inhaling slowly through his nose. When he finally lifts his head, Kylo's watching silently over his shoulder. He blinks sleepily, eyes meandering over Hux's freshly shaven face.

“There you are,” Kylo murmurs affectionately, and Hux's chest constricts.

According to Kylo's chart he's on quite the cocktail of painkillers and the schedule he's on means he must have just taken his next dose. No wonder he's passed out midday. In light of this information Hux decides it's best to pretend nothing had been said, and he returns to his own bed with as much dignity as he can muster. 

 

* * *

 

_Shouts in an unknown language. Someone banging on the door and whooping, rattling it on its hinges for their own amusement. A radio, static and muffled through the walls. A slap to the face, a kick to the belly –_

Hux bolts straight up in bed and claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream. 

Blood rushes in his ears and the hospital room seems to close in, trapping him in place. He wills his eyes to adjust to the darkness – there's an invisible vice around his heart, he can't catch his breath – 

“Hux.” He jumps at the single syllable, almost screaming again as a large shadow moves beside him. A figure is leaning heavily on the little bedside table. But Hux is breathing too fast now and it's making him lightheaded. Can't stop – 

“Hux. It's me.”

Hux knows this voice, knows it's timbre and, distantly, who it belongs to. He squints suspiciously at the concerned face illuminated faintly by the yellow streetlight. 

“Hux, breathe. Look around. Tell me what you see.” 

“C-cupboards. The heart monitor. A... a chair.” The room resumes its dimensions, the ordinary furnishings taking on their familiar shapes and functions once more. 

Kylo is standing very still, weight balanced on his good leg, and he waits like a statue as Hux rubs his eyes with damp palms, exhaling shakily as the last clinging remnants of the dream dissipate. Once Kylo determines Hux is fully awake and in control of himself he turns back to his own bed. Hux's hands are trembling and takes every ounce of restraint not to stop Kylo drawing the curtain back into place. 

 

* * *

 

Hippies and historians might consider '69 the summer of love but for Hux it was the one he graduated. Specifically, after he'd finished officer training but before he reported for his first duty station, Fort Lewis in Washington state. They'd spent the month in that above-garage apartment, picking their way over assorted boxes and belongings. There was a heatwave and they'd slept with the windows open, and awoke to the scent of lilacs from the overgrown bush in back.

After Hux left Kylo moved to this absolute dump in Brooklyn, close enough to the subway line that the peeling walls would rattle. Hux remembers his jaw dropping the first time he saw it. But it was cheap and relatively clean, and the poor soul unfortunate enough to be Kylo's roommate was often gone. Usually Kylo visited him instead of the other way around, as his time was more flexible (he bounced between jobs and the gigs he could get – talent only goes so far in the city where everyone else is trying to make it, too) and Hux's townhouse on base was a palace in comparison. 

Those memories almost don't feel his anymore, gossamer and faded, like scenes from an old but well-loved movie. 

And now Kylo seems like an actor playing another role. Not quite aligning with Hux's memories. Almost a third of their lives has passed by, so it only makes sense. But Kylo had once been so transparent, heart ever on his sleeve, and now he's learned the fine art of shuttering his face. Such composure is disconcerting, for someone who'd once been as open to Hux as a paperback. What unsettles him most is that he can't tell if Kylo's putting on a mask due to their very unconventional reunion and current forced proximity, or if those few glimpses of emotion are genuinely all he feels.

The curtain between them is thin and more of a formality, as Hux can hear everything next door. Just like old times. Kylo reads magazines, plays a noisy game on his phone, watches the Armed Forces Network on the old tube TV. Hux dislikes most of the daytime shows and sitcoms and would rather turn the thing off, but he refuses to squabble over it. Kylo gets a trio of visitors – their beards, massive builds, and civilian clothing indicate they must be special ops as well. They don't stay long, and the conversation doesn't sound particularly friendly, and Kylo's quiet for a while after they go. 

 

* * *

 

Kylo hasn't lost his penchant for excessively long showers so when Hux wakes the next morning to find him absent, and the bathroom soundless, he's grateful to snag it first for once. Yet when he turns the bathroom door handle and steam pours out through the crack, he immediately realizes his mistake.

He has every intention of tactfully closing the door and walking away. You know what they say about good intentions. 

Kylo's hair is magnificent, tumbling in damp waves to curl against his collarbones, and Hux is almost crippled by the urge to sink his fists into it. Some memories had faded, but never that. Never those thick, silky curls between his fingers. Eventually that particular need waned but now it slams into him like it had only lain dormant. Waiting.

Kylo's body is broader and more defined now – Hux is loathe to use a hackneyed word like chiseled, but it's accurate – and marked with a decade of life in the form of scars and scattered tattoos. An angular mandala radiating out from his shoulder, the dots and lines of the pattern extending halfway down his bicep. A pink scar in the shape of a starburst on his taut abdomen. A slim phrase inked in black, arcing under his navel. _Ab irato._ From an angry man. 

“If you're going to peep, might as well come in and get a closer look,” Kylo drawls as he pulls a sweatshirt over his head. His stare pierces through the evaporating steam. “You're letting all the hot out.”

“I need to speak to you,” Hux says authoritatively as he steps crisply in. It's an off-the-cuff fib, his cheeks reddening from being caught spying like a schoolboy. Kylo just raises a brow expectantly, like he knows it's a lie but is curious what he'll come up with. Hux tries not to notice the wet splotches on the waistband of Kylo's Army-issue sweatpants, same ones he's wearing.

“I never thanked you properly for... the extraction.” The word is the correct one but it sounds so clinical. “I should have done so right away.” 

“You're welcome.” Kylo's tone is perfunctory, professional. “Just doing my job.” He has the air of a man for whom delivering ex-boyfriends from the hands of militants is nothing but routine. In the past Hux chastised him more than once for his anger management (or lack thereof) but at least that Kylo he could read clearly, knew how to handle him. This Kylo is nearly undecipherable.

“Kylo – I suppose you go by Ben now instead of Kylo – ” 

“No. But either is fine,” he interrupts matter-of-factly. The overhead light reveals that old scar crossing his features, thin and silvery.

“You could've claimed a conflict of interest when they informed you of the assignment,” Hux presses.

“There's no interest.” 

So that's how it is. “You have my thanks nonetheless.” 

Before he can retreat Kylo reaches out to the ridged bullet wound on his scalp. Hux jumps but doesn't pull away. The curve of Kylo's hand is very large. 

“It seems your concept of personal space hasn't improved,” Hux snips, but without any real venom. Kylo's fingertips cruise up to the much older, near-invisible scar hidden in his hairline. 

_Kylo's smacking the steering wheel, huffing in annoyance and gesturing belligerently at the lumbering semi truck ahead._

_Hux rolls his eyes. “Deep breaths, Kylo.” Instead, Kylo lays on the horn._

_Hux groans in exasperation. “He's going the speed limit. Don't tailgate him. No, do not pass him, it's a double yellow – ”_

_Kylo cranks the wheel and darts out into the opposite lane, flooring it past the truck. Suddenly over a hump in the road comes a blinding pair of headlights –_

_“Hux. Hux. Brendol.” Kylo's voice is thready with fear, cradling Hux's face with shaking hands; Hux cracks open an eyelid._

_“What did you do,” he winces._

_Kylo's eyes are plate-sized and frightened as he helps him out of the mangled vehicle, angled almost on its side in a ditch. The world goes sideways as Hux stands upright. Headlights illuminate them from the highway and a worried voice calls out but Kylo just screams, enraged. Ludicrous, Hux thinks vaguely, anyone with half a brain could see this was Kylo's fault..._

Hux rocks back just a millimeter or two, to break the suddenly overpowering contact. “You were lucky not to get slapped with an assault charge.”

“I hated that I'd hurt you and misplaced my anger.” Kylo drops his hand and almost smiles. “But I think I've atoned for it now, hmm?” 

He seems so at ease as he turns back to the mirror and towels his hair off. Hux, on the other hand, feels a sort of disquieting turbulence that roots him in place, forbidding him from shutting the door. 

“Why'd you join the army, Kylo? It doesn't seem... you.” 

Kylo blinks in surprise at him in the mirror, as if he'd forgotten he was still there. “And just what do you know about me?” he asks rhetorically, body language closed off as he throws the towel over his shoulder. 

“That's fair,” Hux accedes. He's already regretting this entire conversation. “But I knew you then. And enlisting isn't something I could ever have anticipated.”

Kylo's almost eerily calm; the eye of the storm. In the past he'd been moody across the board but he was at least reliable in his raw emotion. This feels dangerous. Unpredictable. 

“What would you like to hear, Hux? That I enlisted so I could kill people? To wave big guns and drive big tanks? Because you left me so lost and adrift that I signed my twenties away?” His voice is laced with scorn as he draws himself up, looming over Hux. “Pick your poison. What's more dramatic? What makes a better story for you?” 

“The truth will do,” Hux manages coolly. 

Kylo's disdainful eyes are fixed on Hux's. “I joined for the same reason you did.” A smirk touches his lips. “To defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic – ”

“You are insufferable.” Hux shoves past before Kylo can finish rattling off the enlistment oath. Faint laughter follows him.

 

* * *

 

Hux has a fairly high pain tolerance, but the staple removal hurts like hell due to the thin skin of the scalp and he grits his teeth as each one is plucked out. 

“Just like a tattoo,” the doctor reassures cheerfully. “Your roommate could tell you a bit about those, huh?” From behind the curtain comes a poorly concealed sigh. 

“Mmm,” Hux agrees noncommittally. He lowers his head so the doctor can access the staples in back and tries his best not to flinch.

“Do you still have it?” Hux gives voice to the question as soon as the doctor leaves, carrying the bent staples with him in a little tin tray, and almost immediately wishes he hadn't spoken.

Kylo pulls back the curtain, frowning. “Have what?”

“The tattoo.”

“You'll have to be more specific. I have many now.”

“You know which one.” 

For an imperceptible half-second, Kylo looks hurt – not what Hux expected – then it's erased, like sand smoothed by the tide. “Of course I still have it.”

“I thought you might have gotten it... lasered off, or something.” 

“It's so small it wouldn't be worth it. It's insignificant.” 

It hadn't been insignificant to either of them then. 

_“I thought you were just running to the liquor store,” Hux demands, pushing Kylo's hair from his forehead. “You didn't answer your phone. You've been gone for hours.”_

_Kylo's kiss is hard and messy. He tastes like cheap whiskey. “You can't go to Japan. Please.”_

_“I have no choice, Kylo. I requested Fort Dix in New Jersey, but I don't get the final say – ”_

_He's pushing Hux away now, so drunk he's staggering, and Hux almost buckles under his dead weight._

_“It's too far. You'll forget me.”_

_“Never,” Hux says forcefully. “Never. You're plastered, Kylo. You're exaggerating.”_

_It's only after he's managed to guide Kylo into a heap on the couch that he notices the plastic wrap and the fresh ink beneath it._

 

* * *

 

He's been hospitalized a week when his orders come: a flight stateside for a psychological evaluation at Walter Reed, the military medical center near Washington D.C., and his formal debriefing. He'd expected it but it still sits heavy and unwanted, a brick in his stomach. Failure. He could've accepted it more easily if he'd been responsible but the fact that it was something he'd had no control over, that others had done it to him, is a harder pill to swallow. 

Kylo's discharged the same day. Hux only knows this because when he gets out of the shower, Kylo's bed is bare, the clipboard at the foot of the bed empty. Hux knows where to find him, but not what he would say if he did.

Meanwhile, he's to be in limbo for the next three days. Unable to resume his duties or participate in any meaningful way. The ghost of a commander.

His living unit seems foreign to him. The converted shipping container had never been cozy but he'd just started to feel at ease here when he was taken. The bed had been stripped of linens, the tiny bathroom emptied of towels and toiletries. He can restock these things again simply enough, but it's a reminder that the unit sat silent and unused for two months. At what point would they have assumed him dead or lost for good and given it to someone else? 

He should use this time to recuperate further but instead he's antsy. He used to go into town occasionally, on the rare instances he had an evening or weekend off and he wasn't already exhausted – the restaurants there won't be earning a Michelin star any time soon, but they were a welcome change from mess hall food. But the thought of that long stretch of road makes his insides clench. Fear is not a feeling he enjoys or is accustomed to. 

He packs his limited belongings, takes his dress uniform to the dry-cleaners, and drops into the barber's to get his hair dealt with. The barber recommends cutting it shorter than usual, to better blend with the shaved sections. The small ones in back might be overlooked but the crimson furrow left by the bullet is too noticeable to be disguised; so instead of trying to conceal it Hux parts his hair away from the wound, baring it to the world. Let them see the token of what he's survived. 

And they do see. He receives crisp, respectful salutes from soldiers and officers alike, eyes following him wherever he goes. He doesn't mind the recognition. He deserves it. He eats with Phann in the commander's private dining room, and his acquaintances and former colleagues are all eager to join them. They don't pry, but there's a new reverence in their eyes.

He has another nightmare. This time when he breaks free of it he's alone, sweating and shivering; he feels off kilter, like something shattered and put back together haphazardly with sloppy glue. Despite the heat he pulls the blanket up to his chin.

 

* * *

 

The firing range is all but abandoned – everyone's busy at their tasks, Hux thinks with a twinge of envy – but he relishes the quiet morning as he places his target in the scrubby field. It's somewhat overcast, a much appreciated rarity, the sun only occasionally peeking through thin clouds.

As he returns to the covered stalls he spies a solitary figure at the far end in tan fatigue pants and a black t-shirt, long gun case in hand and ear muffs hooked around his neck. The limp doesn't make his stride any less intimidating as he makes a beeline for Hux, demeanor stormy with displeasure.

“We've been on this base for how long now without ever crossing paths,” Kylo accuses haughtily, “and now you conveniently manage to turn up at the range while I'm here?”

“Mind your tone,” Hux says cuttingly, flicking opening his box of ammo. “I was here first. Besides, it's hardly a coincidence. We both have nothing else to do. I'm passing time until I leave, and I assume your injury leaves you unable to train any other way.” 

Kylo considers. Relents. “I think you just came here to get schooled,” he suggests idly. It's almost a challenge. 

Hux is sure Kylo's right regarding their skill disparity but he snorts in derision anyway, sliding on his ear muffs. A passing trio of rather awestruck looking corporals salute Hux, but scuttle away when they see Kylo. Hux gives him a look. Kylo shrugs innocently. 

He's conscious of Kylo's eyes on him, not the target 30 yards downrange, as he loads and aims the Beretta he'd borrowed from the armory. The pistol's recoil had once been nothing to him but now it reverberates up into his shoulders with each shot. It angers him, this weakness of his muscles, but he can see by the tiny bursts on the paper target that his accuracy is still up to par.

Kylo merely smirks. “Come with me.” 

They gather their cases and bags and walk side by side towards the long-distance section of the range. Their boots kick up dust, Hux tailoring his steps to match Kylo's slower gait. Kylo's long, hard-shell case bumps against his knee with every stilted step.

“Want me to carry that?” Hux offers.

Kylo gives him a disgusted look. 

This range they have all to themselves and they sets their things down by the low, sandy boxes facing the far-reaching stretch of field. Kylo casts his gaze out along the range, dotted with targets at various intervals. Small red signs mark the distances – 300 yards, 400, 500, further and further away until Hux can't read the numbers. Past the low backstop at the end of the range, so distant it's almost invisible, is more scrubland, taupe and unremarkable. 

As Kylo kneels he's careful to keep the bulk of his weight on his good leg. He opens the long case almost reverently to reveal a TAC-338 sniper rifle. His movements are precise and fluid as he unfolds the stand and sets up the weapon, the pieces snicking softly under his practiced touch.

A gentle gust of wind ruffles his hair and he slips a thin band from his wrist, and with a deft twist contains his hair into a low knot. He then stretches out on his belly, hips shifting from side to side as he settles flat into the sand. Hux watches these movements with fascination before dragging his gaze up to the gun. 

Kylo fits the rifle to his shoulder with care and bends his head to the scope. He waits. A minor adjustment to his aim. He waits. He'd been still like this only when he meditated; an explosive personality's little oasis of tranquility.

His body doesn't budge as he fires. When he reloads his motions are swift and controlled. After the second shot Kylo glances up and inclines his head towards the scope. Hux kneels, shutting one eye to peer through. It's centered on the 1500 yard marker, and there's a hole through the middle of each zero. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs in admiration. “Impressive.” He means it.

Kylo pulls back the bolt action and the fat brass casing pops out with a click. “Want to try?”

“It'll be a poor showing after that,” Hux demurs. 

“There's no one here to see but me.”

Hux adopts Kylo's prone position and takes hold of the unfamiliar rifle, acclimatizing to the feel of it before turning the muzzle to a more achievable target on the 250 yard line. The old paper silhouette is already punched through with shots and he selects an empty patch near the center.

“Control your breathing,” comes Kylo's low voice just behind Hux's ear. “Steady. Don't hold it.” 

He jumps at the touch of Kylo's palm, feather light between his shoulder blades. “Let go of this tension.” Kylo's hand skims down to the dip of his lower back and Hux nearly loses his trigger discipline completely. That beat up piece of paper feels distant and unimportant. His eyes remain dutifully on it, but every nerve is focused on the spot just above his belt where the heel of Kylo's hand rests. 

Hux is too twitchy now to make a smooth shot and the bullet just barely clips the bottom edge of the target. “Damn,” he mutters. He turns to Kylo, resting his cheek on the stock. In this corner of the base, the only sounds are the hum of aircraft and the occasional far-off announcement over loudspeaker. 

As Kylo squints down-range Hux finds himself glued to the line of his jaw, the column of his neck, the purse of his lips. 

_Kylo slinks past the foot of the bed, bending to see the spine of Hux's book. “Maneuver Warfare Handbook. I know what to borrow if I need a sleep aid.”_

_“You don't have to act out to get my attention, you know,” Hux says placidly as he turns the page._

_Kylo clearly doesn't know what to make of this admonition but he blushes deeply. Hux lets him absorb it for a moment before patting the mattress._

_“You're a needy little brat sometimes,” he purrs fondly when Kylo's head is in his lap. “Fortunately for you, I'm a patient man.” He sifts leisurely through Kylo's hair as he finishes the chapter, reading slower than he needs to, ignoring Kylo's heavy-lidded gaze._

_Kylo rolls onto his belly, nudging Hux's legs apart and settling between them, palming his thighs. Hux lets out an exaggerated sigh of irritation he doesn't truly feel. Kylo's expression is positively filthy as he unzips Hux's jeans, licking a long, wet stripe up the underside of his hardening cock –_

“Don't _look_ at me like that,” Kylo snaps, brows knitting warily.

Hux narrows his eyes. “Then don't _touch_ me like that.”

Kylo snatches his hand back like it's been burned. “Like what?”

“Like... at all.” 

The corner of Kylo's mouth quirks up in a sneer. His eyes, once so earnest and adoring and intense, are flinty; watchful, perceptive, yet revealing little. But Hux has the certain sensation Kylo knows exactly why his touch was rejected.

“You know I'll be on the flight with you,” Kylo informs him casually. Hux's surprise must be obvious, and Kylo looks mildly satisfied to be the cause of it. “Oh, you didn't know? Classified. But can you handle being so close to me for fifteen hours?” He remains infuriatingly calm but there's a hint of a taunt in his tone. 

“There's no reason we can't be civil,” Hux says. 

Kylo recoils with offense. “ _I've_ been civil.”

“It wasn't an accusation. Just a reminder. For the both of us. Our... personal history shouldn't be relevant.” 

“You're still a good liar.”

“What exactly are you implying?” Hux interjects as Kylo pulls the rifle away.

“Go away. I have more shooting to do.” 

“You don't get to dismiss me, _sergeant._ This is my base.” 

“Not for much longer.” 

The reality of his words hit Hux like a punch and only through his last shreds of willpower does he not lose his temper. Abruptly he rises up on his knees, brushing sand from his clothes. 

“I'm sorry.” Kylo follows suit, extending his bad leg in front of him. “That was a low blow.” 

Hux's teeth are clenched so tightly it hurts as he keeps his gaze firmly averted down-range. Of course Kylo would know just where to dig to deliver the most damage.

“If you've worked as hard as I knew you to, you deserved this command,” Kylo acknowledges.

“Of course I did,” Hux spits back, angry not at Kylo now but at the circumstances. “I've poured everything into this. And for what? To be tossed aside?” 

“Yeah, two months' captivity is no big deal,” Kylo quips. His tone isn't unkind, though. 

Hux continues focusing intently on the barren field until he's certain he has himself in check again. Such outbursts are tasteless no matter the situation, but an emotional display in front of this particular individual is a lapse he cannot allow. 

“I'll leave you to it,” he announces, standing stiffly. “Enjoy the heat.” The clouds are scudding lazily away now, spattered light breaking through. Kylo rests his forearm on his knee, head tilted. 

“I forgot how your hair looks in the sun,” he says vaguely, sounding very faraway. 

Hux flounders. For a half a second Kylo's a deer in the headlights before his face resets into artificial neutrality. 

“Don't look at me like that,” Hux retorts, deepening his voice in mimicry, and Kylo's eyes crease at the corners in a way that might not have been recognizable to anyone else. 

 

* * *

 

The flight leaves at 1700hrs. The interior of the C-17 is starkly functional compared to the comforts and insulation of a commercial passenger jet. It's not full – a few Air Force officers in flight suits, a grizzled Master Sergeant, a couple government officials in jackets and loosened ties. 

Hux is in the second row, just ahead of the tall blocks of plastic-wrapped boxes strapped down with netting in the plane's belly, but Kylo's in the back in one of the seats lining the wall. They hadn't spoken but he'd seen that distinctive mop of hair when he boarded. There are padded seats in front available, so Hux can only conclude that Kylo would rather spend the night in an narrow nylon jump-seat than be close to him. 

The fluorescent panels give Hux a headache within minutes of takeoff. The smell of the dinner they serve doesn't help. He brought some sliced fruit to offset the quantity of fat and sodium he just consumed and he eats slowly to make it last.

His tablet was stolen during his absence so he puts in earplugs and reads for a while. It's not protocol to wear hats indoors but the brim of his patrol cap shields his eyes from the harsh lighting. He isn't concerned about wrinkling his clothes – his dress uniform is in a garment bag, he'll change before they land – so he removes his jacket and tries for some semblance of comfort in just his tan undershirt and ACU pants.

Yet Kylo's presence is an itch, a dripping tap, white noise he can't shut off. When he gets up to use the lavatory he makes sure to go around the other side of the cargo so he doesn't have to walk past him.

He shouldn't have bothered worrying, as when he exits he risks a peek and sees Kylo is asleep. He really shouldn't worry about Kylo at all. It's both a weakness and a waste of energy. When they land, they'll go their separate ways and likely never encounter each other again. Like comets, passing in the lonely black of space. 

The other passengers are either asleep or their view is blocked by the cargo, so he permits himself to linger under the guise of stretching his stiff limbs. His gaze travels unhurried over Kylo; mouth slightly parted, face shadowed under a black ball cap, head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat. Not for the first time, Hux is envious of Kylo's cat-like ability to sleep anywhere. He's is always jet-lagged for days after these flights. 

There's a guitar case wedged under the row of seats. Does he take requests from his team? Does he play alone to unwind? Is there someone special he writes songs for? 

_“How's Japan?”_

_“Hot. Humid. It's like trying to breathe through a wet rag.”_

_“And the housing?”_

_“They put me in this old concrete shoebox from the forties. But I've got a palm tree in my front yard.”_

_“You feel far, Hux.” Kylo's voice is small and vulnerable, in a way he might not have let himself be in person._

_“Play something for me, Kylo. Put me on speaker phone.”_

_Then a rustle on the other end, the thump of a guitar body, the slide of strings. The tune is sweet and airy, and it's stuck in Hux's head for a week._

“It's just a cheapie.” Hux jumps at Kylo's voice; he hasn't moved but his eyes glitter under the hat. He pushes the case with the heel of his boot. “Old one was stolen a while ago.”

“Oh.” Hux is strangely bereft at the loss, even though he'd given little thought to the instrument until now. He recalls its scratched body, Kylo restringing it after one broke. It snapped while he was playing and left a welt on his palm. Hux had kissed it, just flippantly, but Kylo hadn't been able to hide the blush.

“You look sad,” Kylo observes plainly. Old feelings long kept locked away are unfurling in Hux's chest and he vigorously crams them back down, crossing his arms nonchalantly. 

“Just tired,” he says, and it isn't entirely a lie. He's weary to his bones, not only with the physical need for rest but with the weight of the past two months. As much as he'd like to have remained impervious to it, like a seal's pelt to water, he can admit it's taken a toll. In time, he assures himself, this will be his refiner's fire. 

Kylo examines him, then angles his head to one side, inviting him to sit. 

“It's actually quieter back here,” he explains as Hux acquiesces. “A bit. Cargo acts as a sound barrier.” 

Clearly Kylo's chosen wisely; the plane is still noisy but this little pocket of space is slightly muffled. The seats are small and very close together, and they both tuck in their elbows to avoid bumping each other.

“I think I have an eyemask if you want to sleep.” Kylo reaches for his duffel. “You do look worn down, gingerbread.” 

Hux flinches violently. “Don't say that to me.” 

“Given recent events, you're allowed to look a little rough.”

“Not that. The other thing.” 

Kylo's scrutiny is a laser, searing him. “Why not?”

“You know why not. It isn't appropriate.” 

Kylo looks like he's been slapped. “It's just a nickname.” There's the barest flicker of distress in his eyes before it disappears behind condescending irritation. “It doesn't mean anything.”

“It means something to me.” That wasn't what he planned to say. He coughs; backpedals. “It's improper to address an officer with such familiarity.” 

“You're really going to pull rank on me?” Kylo is cool and contemptuous. “After I quite literally saved your life? Do you have any idea what it was like being sent in that night, taking down that compound for _you_ – ”

“No, I don't, since you told me you it was just another job – ” 

“– not knowing for sure if you were still alive, then seeing you in that shit-hole looking like death itself?” His composure's cracking. “So battered and bloody I could barely recognize you – ” 

Hux can't listen to more and stands abruptly; Kylo launches out of his seat, tossing his hat aside like he's throwing down a gauntlet as Hux paces behind the cargo. Hux detests pacing. It's so useless. 

“So it did matter to you, Kylo? That it was me you were going after and not just some name you'd never heard of?”

“Of course it fucking mattered!” The expletive is dangerously loud and they cast simultaneous glances towards the nose of the plane. No one stirs, no heads pop out to look.

“But I'm _not_ doing this,” Kylo hisses. “I'm not doing this predictable thing where we get all tangled up and forget the reasons we split.”

“And what were those, Kylo? Obviously you've put some thought into this.”

“We're too different. We were never meant to last.”

“That's bull and you know it,” Hux rejoinders fiercely. A bright spark of protectiveness ignites for their past selves, for those short years they'd been in each other's lives. He'd kept all that wrapped safely away and here was Kylo needling it, contaminating those untouched tissue-paper memories. “Those are worn out excuses and they mean nothing. It was hard being apart, but it wasn't until I got my orders for Japan that you started to self-destruct.”

Kylo flushes with guilty anger. His chest heaves, like the oxygen's too thin, his stony, cultivated exterior falling away. 

“You make me sound like a defective machine,” he seethes, grimacing as he shifts his balance to his injured leg and then back again. “We can't all be pure function like you.” 

“You think I'm made of ice? That I don't have feelings? I value controlling them. Not letting them rule me.”

“Believe me, I know all too well.” Kylo advances and Hux stands his ground, boots spread and firmly planted. “You're a real zen master.”

“Back off, sergeant,” Hux threatens. 

“Or what, _sir_?” 

Once upon a time they'd balanced each other, Hux's lithe frame overcome by agility and good form and Kylo's superior strength hampered by his lack of training, but now Kylo has the overwhelming advantage and Hux finds himself easily shoved against the wall of cargo, a muscular thigh breaching his. 

“You won't touch me,” Hux bites out viciously, pushing against Kylo's grip. 

“Who says I want to?” Kylo snarls.

“I'll have you brought up for insubordination – ”

Kylo growls in frustration and shakes him by the shoulders. Not hard, but the back of Hux's head smacks against the cargo. A burst of pain; he sucks in a rough breath, squeezes his eyes tight.

“Oh, fuck, Hux, I'm sorry. Are you alright? Hux?” 

“You _do_ care,” Hux mutters sarcastically.

“Let me see.” He spins Hux around. “One of the lacerations is bleeding. Shit!”

“You goddamn savage,” Hux swears, rounding on Kylo, and he captures a handful of thick black hair and cuts off Kylo's yelp of surprise with a punishing kiss.

The lavatory is larger than those on commercial planes but still too small for two adult men. Kylo's big hands are everywhere, untucking Hux's shirt, spreading over his bare back. Hux had almost forgotten how warm he is, running just a few degrees higher than everybody else, inflaming skin wherever he touches. 

“This is obscene,” Hux notes as he braces on the counter, but makes no effort to end it. The metal vibrates with the plane's engines. “This is the most classless thing – ” Instead of finishing the sentence he groans into Kylo's velvet mouth, sinking his fingers into solid shoulders like they're an anchor to reality. 

Kylo grunts and tenses when Hux accidentally bumps the wound on his inner thigh. Hux draws back, hands hovering. “I'm hurting you – ”

“It doesn't matter.” Kylo yanks Hux's dog tags to pull him in and as he presses hard kisses to his neck Hux catches his hand, roughly rotating it to expose the paler flesh of his inner forearm.

There, on the inside of his wrist. Two black letters, quarter-sized each, done in that iconic traditional tattoo lettering. _HX._ He could almost cover them with his thumb and he presses ruthlessly into the tendons. The permanency of the gesture had shocked him but it had been a little thrilling, too, that Kylo marked himself in such a way for him. A streak of that same possessiveness races through him now. 

“You like this?” he says harshly. “Seeing my name every day?” 

“I hate it,” Kylo pants into the soft spot where Hux's neck meets his shoulder. “I hate it.”

“You could get it removed.”

“It wouldn't change anything.” He can't properly ponder the implications of that before Kylo's tugging at Hux's belt, slotting himself between the V of his thighs. Hux barely holds back a whine as Kylo drops to his knees; he can hardly look or he'll come in seconds like a teenager. 

As Hux bucks up between those slick, lush lips, everything beyond the narrow door fades into nonexistence, a distant and alternate dimension they have no part in. After all this time Kylo still has this effect, giving Hux tunnel vision, yet he feels too far and Hux tugs him up by a lock of hair. 

When he unzips Kylo's fly it's with none of his usual dexterity. As they cant their hips together and Hux stretches his grasp to fit around their cocks Kylo all but chokes, breath fast and ragged in Hux's mouth as their fingers interlace.

“Are you still mine, Kylo?” Hux demands, gripping the back of Kylo's neck. 

“Yes,” he gasps, and despite looking utterly debauched his eyes shine. “Yes.”

In this grimy tin-can bathroom 28,000 feet above the Atlantic, with long lost Kylo shuddering in his arms, Hux feels himself starting to fall together.

 

* * *

 

Kylo presses folded paper towels to the back of Hux's head, his other hand tentative on his nape.

“It's not so bad now,” Kylo announces cautiously. “It's pretty much stopped. I don't think you need the first aid kit.”

“Barbarian,” Hux mutters.

“I'm sorry,” Kylo replies meekly. He wets a fresh towel from the faucet and dabs at the back of Hux's shirt. “There's blood on your collar.” 

Hux just shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise.

“Hux not caring about the state of his uniform? You really have changed.”

“I don't mind a mess when I make it.” Hux is busy attending to stains of a different nature on the front of his trousers. He'd be more concerned if he didn't have his dress uniform to change into.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kylo repeats as Hux winces when the paper towel is peeled from his scalp. 

“I should get injured more often. It makes you much easier to deal with.”

“Please don't.” Kylo sounds pained, and Hux huffs a laugh through his nose as he tucks in his shirt. 

Kylo's body language is stiff now, avoiding eye contact as he maneuvers around Hux to retrieve his shucked jacket from the floor. Hux feels zero shame over this incident yet accepts how sleazy it would look from an outside perspective. He reaches for Kylo, to reassure him with a softer sort of touch that he hasn't been used, but Kylo shies away.

“What's wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Kylo clarifies. “You're just not obligated to be touchy-feely with me. We've gotten it out of our system, and now we'll relax and have a nice sleep until we land.” His smile is brittle.

Hux balks. “You think that's what this was about?” 

“After being in a helpless situation, you seek something to make you feel in control again.” Kylo recites it with finality, as if he's been turning it over for some time. “Like a factory reset.”

“That's quite the conclusion, Dr. Freud.” Hux performs a quick search of himself. The analysis doesn't resonate. He'd often taken the lead in their relationship but he never relied on it to feel in control of himself or his life. “It says more about you that you'd come up with something like that.” 

“Then we'll skip off the plane holding hands?” Kylo's cruel tone is undercut with a simmering melancholy. “Let's see if you still get any medals.” 

Fraternization between officers and enlisted is strictly verboten, and on a handful of occasions Hux had to discreetly reprimand or even officially penalize those who'd violated this prohibition. At the time, he'd taken a rather dim view of these individuals and their lack of self-discipline. 

“I hadn't given it much forethought,” Hux sighs.

“That's a first.” 

Hux glares. Before he can formulate a defense there's a rap on the door, and they both jump in alarm.

“One moment,” Hux calls authoritatively, tidying his hair and tucking his hat under his arm. He checks to make sure Kylo's got himself together (Kylo nods in confirmation) before he assumes his most confident posture and opens the narrow folding door. 

“The colonel reopened one of his injures and I was assisting him,” Kylo lies smoothly to the perplexed woman in a wrinkled pant suit who stands waiting.

“Colonel Hux...!” Recognition dawns. “Oh my goodness, what an honor to meet you. What you went through – ”

Kylo uses Hux's occupation to slip past.

When Hux frees himself from the well-meaning admirer he discovers Kylo has moved his belongings and set up shop in one of the empty seats at the front. _Clever,_ he concedes resentfully. Now they can't have much of a conversation without drawing the notice of the other passengers. Most are dozing but a couple are burning the midnight oil, eyes moving drowsily over laptops or documents.

“You know what I hate,” Hux whispers, after stewing on it for a while. “Movies where conflict exists solely because the protagonists won't communicate.” 

“War drama,” Kylo says conversationally. 

“What?”

“This. It would be a war drama, with those sepia backstory flashbacks.”

“ _War_ drama? They just passed out snack packs of Doritos.” 

Kylo slouches further, parting his long legs so as not to hit the seat in front of him. Hux's eyes are dry from the recycled air and he rubs them with thumb and forefinger. “Don't be evasive.” 

Kylo won't turn to meet his eyes but his jaw is tight. “Figure out what you want to discuss and I won't be.”

Hux is thrown when it occurs to him that he genuinely doesn't know. Planner he may be, but this particular conversation escaped his deliberations. He folds his arms irritably and sets about organizing his churning thoughts. It's important to choose one's words carefully, especially when dealing with such nebulous and delicate sentiments, and he'll lay it out correctly and succinctly or not at all. He isn't tired any longer, he has to sort through this – but apparently his body has other ideas and when he wakes with a jolt, the first blush of dawn is peeping through the tiny windows.

 

* * *

 

The remnants of lingering lavender blur into pale blue day as they make their descent to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland.

“At least give me your phone number,” Hux hisses out of the side of his mouth. 

“I thought familiar contact with an officer was inappropriate,” Kylo replies primly. 

“It is. I still want your number.” 

Kylo ignores further attempts to get his attention and Hux fumes silently, powerless to escalate without making a scene. “Look at me for a moment, Kylo. I just have one question.”

Kylo obeys, regarding him with some reserve. Hux smiles disarmingly. “Do you still have the same number?” 

Kylo isn't quick enough to hide the affirmation that flashes across his face and he glowers as Hux settles complacently back into his seat.

The other passengers disembark first, including Kylo, who slinks briskly out with his hat pulled low. He'll receive no recognition for his actions due to the necessary anonymity of Delta Force operators – it's not the kind of job you do for the accolades, and Hux can't imagine him enjoying the attention anyway. 

As Hux finishes buttoning his dress uniform he's greeted by Captain Bryant, an effusive public affairs officer with a neat braided bun.

“We'll release a few photos to the press,” she informs him, reviewing a dossier as Hux straightens his tie. “Then you'll have several days to settle in before we meet to discuss the proposed interviews. We've had requests from all the major news outlets.” 

The sun is only just up and the outside air is still crisp and cool. Hux hadn't realized until now, breathing it in, seeing the treeline in the distance past the hangars, how desperately he'd fought to cling to this exact scenario while he was in captivity. It's hardly Caesar riding triumphant into Rome but he's here, still standing – victorious if not in battle than in the basic but essential preservation of his life. 

There are three photographers waiting on the tarmac, shutters clicking as Hux comes down the cargo ramp with shoulders squared, Bryant trailing. Alongside the photographers are the base commander, his executive officer, their respective aides, and Hux's parents. Hux has never known his father to weep but the old general's eyes are suspiciously damp as he gruffly embraces his son.

Brendol Hux Sr. has become somewhat political since his retirement and his parents have lived in D.C. for the past few years. The trees lining the freeway into the city seem indescribably verdant, the wide, flat Potomac sparking in the morning light. They drive past coffee shops and busy bakeries, museums and churches, pedestrians flowing in columns on their way to work. Just life; reassuring, even in its ordinariness. 

Hux has only been to the elegant turn-of-the-century townhouse twice and though the tasteful décor hasn't changed, it seems more lavish than he remembered. His mother finds excuses to be near him – Hux doesn't mind – and enthusiastically offers to put together a breakfast tray, or help him unpack. He thanks her but pleads a headache. 

“Later,” he promises, and retreats to the quiet of the guest room. It's nice, done in soothing shades of cream. It overlooks the brick patio in back, sunny and adorned with overflowing planters, and Hux sits in the bay window for what feels like a very long time. 

 

* * *

 

His sleeping pattern is off now and as he lays awake in the overly plush bed he runs through scenarios. It soothes him, like counting sheep but more productive.

He crafts a series of persuasive phrases to assure the psychologist he's mentally fit enough to return to duty. He considers the debriefing; he's eager to know the details of his captors, their motives, which militant group they were associated with. For each option – Al-Shabaab, anti-government rebels, just opportunists out for a ransom – he creates a theoretical plan to tackle it in-country. He won't acknowledge now that he may never return to enact it.

When he's satisfied with his conclusions he files them away and shifts to the topic of Kylo. He'd said his reason for returning to the states was classified, though the chance of that being just a smart-ass comment is high. His current location is a total unknown, and given the secretive nature of his work, Hux would be unable to track him down. There are likely candidates – Delta Force is headquartered at Fort Bragg – but what Kylo would be doing there, having left his team behind at Camp Mideyo, remains a blank. 

Over the course of his career Hux has become skilled at communicating effectively with his officers and subordinates, and most respond well to his brand of calm objectivity and blunt yet fair leadership. Yet on subjects closer to the heart he was rusty – not that he'd ever been Mr. Debonair. His relationships in recent years had been primarily casual and short-lived, satisfactory while they lasted and amicably ended. He suspected his focus and drive turned some off. Those that accepted or even admired it were inevitably of a similar bent, and thus unable to devote much to a romantic partnership. 

Ideally, he concluded long ago, he needs someone to understand and match this intensity yet not devolve into the cold ambition Hux knows he's disposed to.

He reaches for his phone, rubbing his thumb over the textured case. He never deleted Kylo's number, despite assuming it must have changed. He'd told himself this was merely a manifestation of his detail-oriented nature. He'd replaced the name with K, then shortly after to “Former Neighbor” when even that single letter became an uncomfortable reminder smack in the middle of his contacts list.

Spontaneity leads to stupidity. Usually. He slams the phone back on the nightstand – no, in the drawer, just to get it out of sight – before he can do anything he'll regret. 

_“Are you deliberately avoiding my calls, Kylo?”_

_“If anyone's avoiding calls it's you.”_

_“You can't just call whenever it's convenient for you and expect me to pick up. I have work, there's something called a time zone – ”_

_“Who's talking in the background?”_

_“O'Reilly, We work together. We're out for drinks.”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_“Don't tell me you're jealous, Kylo. Do you think so little of me? I'm doing my best, I don't know what you expect from me – ”_

_“You could've asked me to come with you!”_

_“...to Japan...?! Is that what you want? You've never once mentioned this!”_

_“Why would I? For you to say no, it's too impulsive, it's too big a step?”_

_“How can you assume I'd say no if you never brought it up!?”_

_“If you wanted it, Hux, you would've suggested it yourself. I can't talk anymore. You're not the only one with a job.”_

_“You can't say things like that and hang up. Would you come now, if I asked you?”_

_“Don't know. I have to go.”_

_“Will you at least email?”_

_“Don't know. Bye, Hux.”_

 

* * *

 

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center resembles an ancient temple complex more than a hospital, sprawling among dense woodland north of D.C. The sky is thick with rain and the wipers squeak on the windshield of Hux's parents' car as he turns into the parking lot, hunting for the sign to the mental health building.

He barely registers the crow swooping low across his field of vision before he slams on the brakes, jolting forward, seatbelt scraping the side of his neck. His arms lock on the wheel as wild panic rises in his gorge – he's flushing hot, windpipe closing in on itself. His blood pounds too loud in his ears. A car horn sounds behind him but it seems very far away. 

There's movement at the corner of his eye; he jerks and flattens into his seat, fists up. A woman's knocking on his window. Her face swims; her lips form _are you alright?_

He can't breathe. He's not alright. 

___

“I understand there was an incident with your car.” 

Dr Hill is a squishy sort of woman, resembling a cookie-baking grandmother more than an army psychologist. Even her office conjures up homey impressions; the furniture is military standard but she's added plump cushions and a Tiffany style lamp. There's a vase of daisies on the windowsill, rain trickling in rivulets down the glass. But her gaze is frank and intelligent and Hux can sense he won't be able to mislead her quite as easily as he'd hoped. At least not in the state he's in.

“There was,” he affirms brusquely. There's a tremor in his hand and he balls it up, tucking it between his thigh and the arm of the loveseat. The motion doesn't go unobserved by Dr Hill but she chooses not to address it.

“We're here for a report of mental status evaluation,” she says cursorily, thumbing through the file on her desk. “I have your records from Camp Mideyo. You went through a lot, colonel.” 

“Not as much as some.” 

“Enough to give you a panic attack in a parking lot.” There's no accusation in it. Her demeanor is patient. Compassionate.

“Forgive me for taking umbrage at the insinuation that I'm mentally unsound.” He takes care not to bite out the words. His clenched fist won't stop twitching. He's forgetting all the careful arguments he's planned in his favor.

As she flips through the file again, scribbling a quick note, Hux looks past her to the steady path of the raindrops on the window.

 

* * *

 

It rains through the night, slowing to the lightest drizzle the next day. Cars throw up sprays of water, the asphalt reflecting dull gray light from a shrouded sun. 

Hux hung his jacket in a garment bag on the drive here so it would remain flawlessly crease and lint free, and gives the brim of his hat a quick once-over so it shines. Appearances are vital.

The Pentagon is more impressive from the air than the ground, a low, functional beige structure with neat grids of windows. Hux might have liked to work here someday. He would've preferred his first visit be under other circumstances.

The interior is just as utilitarian as the exterior, resembling a standard office building more than the headquarters of the Department of Defense, but it's a hive of activity. People stream in all directions like ants, uniformed in military garb from all services and conservative civilian suits, like plumage variations of the same bird. Most are absorbed by the route to their respective destinations but here and there, heads twist to watch him. His height and hair distinguish him, and the military portrait they'd run in the news was an accurate likeness. It was odd, to read about himself in the third person, but he devoured the articles with interest anyway and been relatively content with his portrayal. The grainy photo taken in that concrete house, though, had been uncomfortable to look at. Unkempt, blank-faced, squinting at the flash. Not him.

The crowded elevator is filled with the murmur of phone conversations and shuffling papers. Hux knows the man leading the debriefing – Brigadier General Hollis, they'd worked together briefly in Germany – and he uses the ride to try to recall his wife's name. Mousy hair, poor dresser. Margaret? Mary? Not that inquiring after his family would affect his case, but it couldn't hurt.

As he exits the elevator on the correct floor there's a certain very recognizable man at the forefront of the herd waiting to get on. Hux does a double take.

“Kylo?”

Kylo nearly drops his beret and his fingers clutch it tighter than necessary to tuck it back under his arm.

“What brings you here?” Hux modulates his question to the tune of casual cordiality and discreetly moves aside, so as not to block traffic. According to his watch he has a few minutes to spare, so he tips his head curtly and meaningfully towards the stairwell. Kylo's gaze flits between him and the waiting elevator. He almost doesn't follow.

“Debriefing, same as you,” he answers offhandedly, once they're alone in the quiet of the stairwell. 

“Why would they bring you to the states for that? Did you know yours was scheduled directly before mine?” 

Kylo's posture is assured but the minute shifts in his expression indicate he's holding something back. He was never very good at deception. And maybe it's the harsh lighting but he looks drained. The uniform fits him well but he doesn't seem quite at home in it. Both that and the non-regulation hair, a low tight ponytail that would've made Hux twitch had it been anyone else, contribute to an air of otherness, a non-belonging with the crisp, powerful people beyond the fire door. 

As Kylo fiddles with the button on his sleeve, Hux ponders for the hundredth time what prompted him to join the service. Special forces grants him far more autonomy than a conventional soldier, but he was still beholden to superior officers and the army hierarchy, and had spent years at the bottom of the ladder before achieving a place among the vaunted Delta Force. Although Kylo would vehemently deny it, he is (or was) susceptible to a kind of desire to be guided, supported – that band manager Snoke, later Hux himself (though he'd wielded this power wisely,) and now, it seems, the armed forces. It's a character trait at odds with Kylo's mercurial nature and near-violent independence from convention. Hux won't presume to give himself undue importance, but enlisting in the heightened emotional state of being cut off from this support is just the kind of rash thing Kylo would do. 

Before Hux can speak Kylo's hand flies up, curling like he's about to grab Hux's collar, but he stops just in time. The anguish of the aborted gesture rekindles in Hux both a keen protectiveness and a near-physical longing, as if each of his trillions of cells are pulling forward towards Kylo. They're conscious of the seconds ticking by towards Hux's meeting, both on alert for the very real possibility of being walked in on at any moment. 

Their embrace is brief and fierce, as if everything deep and desperate and wordless can be transferred through the press of their uniforms. Hux is almost undone by Kylo's cheek on his neck, just two short breaths warm on his skin before they break away. It's a strange sensation akin to ripping apart Velcro. 

“Good luck.” Kylo delivers the phrase with the perfect balance of courtesy and detachment. Hux nods formally. As Kylo retreats down the stairs, still limping, his bearing never falters. 

 

* * *

 

As Hux exits the building after his debriefing he walks quicker than he needs to. He takes no care for the rain pattering the flat top of his hat and crinkling the manila folder he'd been given. He'd forgotten an umbrella.

He's to be awarded the Prisoner of War Medal and the Purple Heart, though he'd only had a short period of time to appreciate these honors before the board had moved to weightier topics. It had been a very civil affair. Yet his stellar record had not mattered to them, nor his career accomplishments up until this point. Even his captivity and subsequent abuse were all but meaningless – intel has it that his captors were essentially nobodies, only loosely aligned with known terrorist organizations, and his abduction was in pursuit of ransom money, pure and simple. During those seven weeks he'd bolstered himself with the assurance that he suffered in defense of a noble cause but now even that is taken from him.

None of it matters now because he's going to be stripped of his command (relieved of duty) and sentenced to (allotted) a six month leave of absence. All he'd been striving for, command of his own base, gone with a sheaf of paperwork and few sentences handed down from on high.

Hux sets his hat carefully on the passenger seat. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. Rain has leaked into his shoe. 

He screams.

It improves nothing. And now his throat hurts.

He fishes Captain Bryant's card from his wallet and punches her number into his phone. “No interviews,” he informs her without preamble when she answers. Even as she processes he can hear her bewilderment. 

“But, sir – ”

“No interviews.” His voice is severe even as it shakes. Originally he hadn't minded the concept but now he can't suffer the indignity of shaking a hundred hands, nodding along to some sycophant reporter, everyone on tenterhooks for him to tear up and spill every gory detail and praise God and country and the American dream. “You call me back if the Army decides to force me to do it but until then, _no._ ”

His phone remains heavy in his hand even after he hangs up. “Former Neighbor.” So tempting, those innocuous nine digits. 

There had been an offhand remark, made by Hollis across the long table. “Delta was directed to take the hostiles alive but there were unforeseen complications. So our intel on their motives is primarily conjecture based on evidence gathered from the site and the surrounding regions.” 

That had been the only reference to the extraction team. The men in the makeshift jail had been in their early twenties, inexperienced and skittish. Hux can't imagine that rag-tag band overcoming a highly trained special ops team to the point that they'd had to be eliminated.

The phone rings for a long time.

“What do you want, Hux?”

“How did you know it was me?” Silence. “Am I still in your contacts, Kylo?” 

“You obviously saved my number too so let's call it even,” Kylo says grumpily. 

“Why did we do that?” Hux contemplates. 

A pregnant pause. “I don't want to have this conversation,” Kylo replies wearily. “Definitely not over the phone.”

“Where are you? Still in D.C.?” 

“Is that relevant?”

“God, you're _difficult!_ ” Hux shouts. Someone passing by his car peers in. 

The outburst must have taken Kylo aback because his response is laced with concern. “Where are _you?_ ”

“I lost Mideyo, Kylo. The psychologist's report says I'm cracked up.”

“That's the terminology medical professionals are using now?”

“The official recommendation was 'requires temporary duty limitations and would benefit from extended leave and behavioral health treatment before being restored to full duty,'” Hux quotes in one breath. “Behavioral treatment. Like a dog.” 

The silence isn't as awkward as it should've been, nor does Hux feel foolish for calling like he expected to. His breathing returns to a less manic rate, and he releases his death grip on the steering wheel. 

“I always knew you'd end up in charge of something big, Hux. I'm sorry it was taken like this.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

“Do you want to meet for lunch?” The words tumble out; too casual, a little anxious. There's a faint crack on the other end, like the phone's being squeezed to within an inch of it's life.

“I'm not hungry. But yes to the first part.”

 ___

The Jefferson Memorial is just across the sluggish, rain-stippled river. Few tourists are present on a wet weekday and those that do venture out don't stay long. The marble steps into the rotunda are slick but it's fairly dry under the portico, aside from the occasional gust of wind blowing the damp in. Hux would've brought a change of clothes if he'd anticipated a detour after the briefing and instead of going inside he waits by a column on the far end, hoping not to attract attention.

After fifteen impatient minutes he almost calls Kylo but then he's there, just as Hux is reaching for his phone. He's in civilian clothes now, jeans and boots and a black wool coat, and as he navigates the slippery steps he looks so much like he once did that Hux's breath catches; he's grateful for the distance between them, giving him the chance to collect himself before having to speak. 

Kylo's hair is loose now, studded with raindrops like gems, scattering as he shakes his head. He leans against the column, bending the knee of his injured leg.

“Why did you enlist, Kylo?” Hux doesn't bother with a greeting. Kylo doesn't seem put off. 

“I was... low. I ran into a recruiter by chance. I needed something... I didn't know what. I thought maybe the army had that something.”

“What was your meeting for? And don't say classified.” 

“I disobeyed orders.” He's defiant, not even slightly repentant. “We were instructed to bring in the hostiles alive and we could've done it. Easily. But they were standing between me and you.” His voice rises with each word, more and more ferocious, as if steeling himself for Hux's chastisement. 

Colonel Hux understands the severity of this violation. Colonel Hux knows exactly how he would deal with such disobedience within his own ranks. But Brendol Hux feels a surge of primitive gratification. He can all too easily call up the memory of his captors' merciless faces. He envisions Kylo as a berserker, crazed and laying waste with righteous fury. 

“I'm glad they're dead,” Hux says brutally. He knows how it sounds. Doesn't care. “I'm glad you were the one to do it.” 

Kylo's tongue darts out, pressing into his bottom lip. Hux fixates on it. Smirks. “Rules are for other people.” 

“It's not the first time I've disregarded an order. That's why they sent me back here.”

“How you of all people managed to finagle your way into Delta Force is something I'll never comprehend.” 

“My reenlistment date is coming up.” Kylo looks sly now. “It was strongly suggested to me I not do so, or else risk a court martial.” 

Hux tries to gauge Kylo's feelings on the subject. “I'm sorry,” he settles on.

“Doesn't matter,” Kylo shrugs. They were generous enough to give me an out.” 

Hux scoffs in disbelief. “Only you could make it to one of the most elite military forces in the world and give it up with such ease.” 

Kylo shrugs again, as if Hux's incredulity amuses him. “I'll have quite a resumé.”

The rain is a gentle patter, punctuated only by the occasional voice from inside the rotunda. Across the water the Washington Monument pierces the low fog. A couple snaps a selfie, arms wrapped around each other, giggling in what sounds like Italian. Hux pictures himself and Kylo in the background of the picture, anonymous figures forever preserved in someone else's vacation photos.

Kylo's growing restless now. A little panicky. It reminds Hux of the calm before one of his tantrums, but it doesn't seem headed that way; Kylo's wrestling it silently. He's pale from the cool rain, lashes dark against alabaster skin as his eyes flick to and fro.

Hux feels he might as well be opening his chest cavity, cracking the ribs one at a time, exposing his raw insides. “When I see you it's like ten years haven't passed at all.” 

For once in his life, smart mouthed Kylo has no immediate retort. He searches Hux's face, jaw working.

“This failed before,” he challenges doubtfully. He may have developed some restraint over time yet that intensity, that passion, still courses in him, simmering like magma under the earth's crust. He burns with it. “Why wouldn't it now?” 

“There were things you needed from me that I couldn't give due to the distance. Stability. Security. But you were younger then. I don't think you need that from me anymore.”

Kylo's eyes slide away. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want it.”

The gap between them is next to nothing and Hux closes it in one stride, gripping Kylo's lapels. “You look at me when I'm speaking to you, sergeant. That's an order.”

Kylo complies. The white stone casts a soft, even light over his features, his eyes almost tawny. 

It hurts, this vulnerability. Like resetting a bone. A necessary and valuable pain.

“When I left for Japan you decided my love for you couldn't reach that far. But it always has.” The confession, so long buried and unvoiced, all but soars out of him. Kylo's barely breathing. “It's followed me wherever I go. If you're still up for it... I'd like _you_ to, instead.” 

Kylo swallows thickly. The pad of Hux's thumb ghosts over his jaw. “And you're not going to find anyone else to put up with your sass.” 

“Did you have to ruin it, Hux – ”

Hux pulls him out of view and kisses him until those pale cheeks flush pink and that cool mouth is swollen and breathless.

“I can't,” Kylo mumbles brokenly. “This is just some kind of PTSD reaction – I'm not a pill to pop to make you feel like your old self again – ” 

“Did you ever truly get over it?” Hux demands, fingers sliding into the soft, damp hairs at the nape of Kylo's neck. “Over us.” 

Kylo's face crumples. “You know you don't have to ask.” 

“Then why won't you believe it's the same for me?” 

“I can't risk it. Can't do it again.” Kylo's gaze is downcast and wistful as he extricates himself. The last touch of his hand lingers like it's compelled to Hux by a magnetic field, only able to be withdrawn with great force. “You come back to me when you've got yourself together. And I'll know you want me for... me.”

As he limps down the steps and back out into the rain, it feels like he's taking Hux's most vital organ with him.

 

* * *

 

Hux enjoyed the short year he'd spent stationed in Washington. The mild weather, cool pale skies, and calm bays and channels of Puget Sound had had somewhat of a pacifying effect on him. On clear days Mount Rainier was visible to the southeast of the base, an omnipresent, flattened peak dappled in slate and white. 

The mountain's silhouette is hazy now, buttery-golden in the late afternoon sun. Gulls ride the air flow thrown off by the ferry, screeching over the roar of its churning wake. A pair of kids throw fries over the side, squealing with laughter when a gull dives and snatches one midair.

His therapist encouraged him to spend more time in nature. He's hardly an outdoorsman – dirt, sweat, insects, what's to enjoy? – but this is a good start.

“You're aware your mother will probably dislike me even more now, given my father's recent political machinations,” Hux remarks as he curves his hands over the cool railing. Below him the sea froths and undulates in a wide swath behind the ship.

“ _I_ still dislike you,” Kylo opines breezily, leaning back with his elbows on the railing. His hair is tangling wildly in the wind. When they return to the car deck it'll look like a bird's nest. He never seems to mind.

“You think you can talk to me however you please?” Hux says sternly, catching hold of his sleeve.

Kylo tugs free to fruitlessly push his hair from his face. “Absolutely I do.” 

His mouth tastes like sea salt. 

Hux thinks that maybe, finally, he's in one piece again. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
